


Bring This Ship Into The Shore

by Glitter_Bug



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Love songs, M/M, Mentioned in hospital context, Needles, Neil Hargrove Being an Asshole, Pining, Post S3, Recovery, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29400912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitter_Bug/pseuds/Glitter_Bug
Summary: Billy had been through a lot of unexpected shit in the last few years.And ok, maybe the whole monster possession thing was at the top of the list.But Steve Harrington sitting beside his bed, reading a copy of Teen Beat and tapping the toe of his Nike against the highly polished hospital floor?Well that. That was a pretty close second.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 28
Kudos: 108
Collections: Harringrove Heart-On (2021)





	1. I Feel So Secure When We're Together

Billy had been through a lot of unexpected shit in the last few years.  
And ok, _maybe_ the whole monster possession thing was at the top of the list.  
But Steve Harrington sitting beside his bed, reading a copy of Teen Beat and tapping the toe of his Nike against the highly polished hospital floor?  
Well that. That was a pretty close second. 

He'd been coming around for just over a month.   
A stand-in for Max after her return to school. A literal stand-in, on that first day, when he rapped at the doorframe and stopped before coming any closer, shuffling from foot to foot, one hand clutching a couple of battered paperbacks, the other scratching at the back of his head as he waited for Billy to greet him, to invite him in.

Billy hadn't. 

And, to his credit, Steve had tried. Had walked over that threshold anyway. He'd held up the books with a grin so that Billy could see the covers, _Dune_ and _Solaris_ , and made some jokey comment about Billy being a secret nerd and how he should join the Party, how he’d fit right in with Dustin and the kids. His grin had wavered a little when Billy didn't answer, but he'd kept on trying. Settling into the uncomfortable chair beside the bed and chattering on about Max and El and Joyce and Hop, and how they were all asking after him. Billy knew that Steve was just saying anything to fill the silence. Small talk. Words without meaning. So he didn't respond. And eventually, Steve’s rambling ceased and they sat in silence until Steve left.  
And Billy assumed that was it. Figured he wouldn’t come back again. Wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.

But he did. And it stayed awkward for a while; Steve turning up every few days, bringing along some token from Max, a book stolen from Billy's room or clean socks or even a few candy bars.  
And then they became less...Max-y. Thick, warm blankets knitted by hand from expensive wool, new socks without holes in the toe, the latest Stephen King in hardback.

Steve would slide these gifts onto the bedside table and then sit on the chair by the bedside, tapping his foot or jiggling his leg as he tried making conversation, hitting on every subject from last night's Jeopardy to Steve's musings on the best flavour of pie, but eventually his words would stop, and his eyes would start to flit between the watch on his wrist and the door, and he'd clear his throat or pluck at a thread on his sleeve and then he'd make up some errand he had to get to.

And he’d say goodbye.  
And he'd leave.   
And Billy would kick himself for letting it happen again. For letting his tongue stick in his mouth when he was desperate to talk, to laugh, to ask why why _why_ Harrington kept on coming round? 

He kept waiting for it to be the final straw. He was surprised when Steve kept coming back, day after day. He's not surprised when Steve eventually breaks.

When he storms in one day, no bag of goodies in his arms, and stands at Billy's bedside with his hands on his hips,

"Look, Hargrove, am I bothering you, coming in like this? Or are you just trying to be an asshole?"

And Billy's tongue finally comes unstuck. Because anger? Anger and disappointment and the realisation that Billy's not good enough? Not worth it?   
_That_ Billy could deal with. 

"'S all I'm good at," 

Steve's eyes widen, "No, no, Billy that's not...that's not true,"

Steve sits down then, reaching out to the bedside table before he realised he'd brought nothing and placed his hands into his lap instead,  
"Sorry. I'm the asshole. Coming in and yelling like that,"

Steve hadn't been yelling. Billy knew yelling. But he noticed how Steve softened his tone anyway, “It’s just...I get it, if you're angry at me. For...well. The whole..” Steves makes two fists and smashes his knuckles together, making a weird ‘boof’ sound when they meet.

It takes Billy a moment, but he gets it. The car. The crashing. The way he stopped Billy from killing another person. People.   
And _god_ Billy isn’t angry. And he could _never_ be angry about that. Steve had been the one who’d heard his silent cries for help and done exactly what Billy had been begging for.  
Billy only wished he’d hit a little harder. Knocked him out and stopped the whole thing. 

“No!” It escapes before Billy can stop it. Croaked and cracked and so damn desperate. He tries to clear his throat, and ends up coughing instead, a horrid rasping sound that has him fighting for breathe as Steve looks around in a panic, 

“Hey, hey, Billy, hey. There’s uh, here.” he grabs the half full plastic cup from the beside table, Billy’s not allowed glass anymore, and gently places it in Billy's hands, “Drink. Breathe. It’s ok.”

He sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed, watching worriedly, while Billy drinks and breathes and finally, finally... talks.  
  
“No, Harrington. I’m not. I’m not angry."

“So why’ve you been so…” Steve makes a face, some screwed up expression which, in fairness, manages to encompass a lot of Billy’s demeanour.  
  
“I just. I don't get why you came. Why you keep coming? Because Max asked?”

Steve runs a hand across the back of his neck, looking a little ashamed, “Well, yeah, that was...that was at the start. She was worried. _Really_ worried. She thought you might...I dunno. Give up? Or something? If she wasn’t there to keep checking in on you.” He glances down, talking to the ground, “And...I get it. I get what she means. You. You just sit in that damn bed and you don’t talk and you, you look so… tired and, I dunno, done. And I wanted to... I thought maybe I could… help?”

Steve looks up with a shrug, “Did a pretty shitty job though, right? Spend a couple of weeks boring you and then I come in and yell at you."  
  


Billy shakes his head, "Nah, Harrington you didn't. You, uh. No one else even fucking tried so...no." It comes out all wrong. Billy tries again. "I was being a dick. Not you. You were, you were being nice. All the books and the blankets and stuff, I shoulda-"

Steve cuts him off, "No, I get it. It was a lot. I didn't mean to-"

"Shut it.” Billy interrupts, glaring at him, “ _I_ was the asshole."

Steve holds up his hands in mock surrender, "Hey, I'm not gonna fight. Let's say we've both been dicks and maybe we can both be...less assholes? Fewer assholes? Not as asshole-ish? Whatever.” He holds out a hand, "Yeah?"

"OK, yeah."

Billy grasps it as firmly as he can. He winces a little when Steve's soft palm brushes against his own scarred one, but Steve doesn't seem to notice. Instead he holds on a little longer than Billy was expecting before letting Billy’s hand go,

"God, it _is_ good to hear you though.” Steve leans back in his chair, looking a hell of a lot more relaxed than on any of his previous visits, “I'd started wondering if you could talk. Y'know after the...throat...thing…" Steve trails off looking sheepish, and Billy snorts,

"After I deep throated a tentacle monster, y'mean?" 

Steve's sudden, gaspy burst of laughter is better at relieving Billy’s pain than any of the borderline illegal shit Billy has pumping around his veins. 

"Thanks for _that_ mental image, Hargrove, but yeah. That. _Shit."_ He laughs again, and Billy's body tingles with warmth, "I was gonna ask Max but I didn't wanna worry her." 

"How is she? Max? Is she OK?" Billy tries to sound casual. He knows he’s failed when Steve’s expression turns serious,

“Her….uh. ..your Dad doesn't like her coming here. I offered to drive her, to keep an eye, but he didn't seem happy. She keeps asking me to sneak her in though, coming up with all these crazy schemes." Steve doesn’t laugh at that and Billy’s glad he gets it. It's not funny when Neil's involved, ever.

"Fuck, no. Don't, don't let her get in trouble."

"I won't.” Steve’s seriousness lightens a little and he winks, “I'm a good influence now," he tugs at the collar of his polo with a thumb and forefinger and sits up straight, "an upstanding citizen."

And then Billy's grinning again.   
Harrington makes it easy to smile.  
There's a comfortable silence, until Steve breaks it, "She asks about you, though. Every day."

“I didn’t know she was that worried,” Billy admits. 

"She was. She really cares about you...we all do." Steve says it so simply, so much _easily_. Like he doesn't realise how much weight it carries. Putting it out there like it's not the biggest damn thing anyone's ever said to Billy.

Billy shakes his head, but Steve simply carries on, "Yes. We do. Max and El and Joyce and Hop and...fuck, Billy...So do I. You _died_ for us. And you fought and you were so fucking brave."

  
He looks up, brown eyes full of...compassion? Maybe? Billy’s not sure, exactly. But it makes something clench in his heart.

The words feel less empty this time, so he let them sink in. Max and El, that girl, the one who saw _everything_ and still tried to help him.   
And Joyce and Hop. He barely knew them, but he recognises the names from a label on a box of homemade cookies. He thinks Joyce might have been in once, before, when he wasn’t quite...himself. He remembers a gentle hand on his. Someone brushing his hair back. A calm voice telling him to stay still, to _rest, honey_ when he tried to move, tried to look.

He’d pretended it was his mom.

And Steve. Steve cares.

That's the bit that breaks him. 

  
He's grateful that Steve looks away when the first tears fall, grateful for the way he takes the plastic water jug away to refill it at the sink all the way on the other side of the room, giving Billy the space to cry, to let it all out as silently as he can, only coming back when Billy’s finished scrubbing at his face with his sleeves.

He’s grateful that Steve doesn’t push. Just waits, until Billy’s got himself back together.

"So, uh, did...did you see Jeopardy last night?" Billy asks, voice a little husky,

And Steve beams, leaning back in the chair and crossing one leg over his knee.

  
  


It’s...different, after that. 

Like a dam breaking. A wall crumbling.

Steve comes round more often, bringing food they can share- fries and milkshakes from Rosie's Place, and a bunch of Max’s old magazines that they take turns flicking through. Teen Beats and Bops that were supposed to be donated to the waiting room and end up littering Billy’s blankets instead. 

Their conversation flows. Billy finds that Steve’s really easy to talk to, he has an opinion on _everything_ , or manages to form one quickly, and will happily spend an hour playfully arguing his point or, at least, wandering off on some other tangent and starting a new topic which, when Billy eventually picks it apart, does have a surprisingly relevant connection to whatever they were first talking about.

And while Billy might be amazed by the meandering paths of Steve's conversations, he's even more impressed by how much Steve remembers, how much he picks up.

There's a moment as Steve's leaving, when he jokes about finally giving the nurses some peace, and Billy says something back, some off-hand comment about how it's hardly ever quiet, how there's always a beeping machine or the tapping of someone's footsteps. How even when it is quiet, even when it's deathly silent, well it's never exactly peaceful.

He doesn't say any more than that, definitely doesn't say that the background noises aren't enough to make the silent stretches feel less echoing, less ominous. How he's kept awake not by noise but by the absence of it, how his ears and his brain and his eyes play tricks when there's nothing for them to focus on.

How he closes his eyes and hears echoes of Max's screams, Neil's footsteps, his own voice ' _it'll all be over soon … just try to hold still'._

He doesn't say it.

But still, the next day, Steve turns up with a bag of grapes, a dogeared Shirley Jackson novel and a radio. A shiny silver boombox thing, clearly expensive and with slots for two tapes and an antennae for the radio and about a million different settings, that he puts on the top of the little cupboard at the other side of Billy’s bed.

“Don’t pull the plug on me, Harrington,” Billy deapans as Steve scrabbles around under the bed, looking for an empty socket for the power cord.

“Oxygen’s not that important, right?” Steve grins back, emerging with dishevelled hair and a victorious look, “At least not more important than...music!”

He turns with a flourish towards the radio, pressing a button and wincing as the sound of static fills the air. He reaches for one of the dials, twisting until he hears something with a melody.

Bee Gees. 

It’s not Billy’s favourite, but it’s worth it for the little strut Steve does as he walks around the bed in triumph before settling in the chair and reaching for the bag of grapes. He sprawls back, long legs out in front of him and his mouth open as he tosses a grape into the air and catches it between his teeth.

He manages to catch four more while Billy’s still trying to get his head around the whole thing.   
Three grapes roll away to gather dust and turn into raisins under the cabinet next to the bed as Billy processes exactly what Harrington...what Steve has done for him.  
Two land in the little void behind Billy's headboard as he turns the thought over and over. Steve did this for him. Heard what he hadn’t said and...found a way to help.  
There's at least ten littering the floor around them by the time that Billy comes out of his head, and it’s to the sound of Steve tapping along to _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_ on the arm of the chair.

Billy doesn’t even have to think before his fingers are doing the same, muffled little taps against his blanket.  
Steve shoots him a smile, and then he’s singing. He comes in somewhere in the middle of the verse, not quite getting all the words, but it’s infectious and, by the time the chorus kicks in, Billy’s singing along too. Quietly, almost as muffled and self conscious as his tapping, but his voice is there. Steve shoots him a smile and they both sing a little louder, Steve clicking his fingers in a rhythm that’s almost right, while Billy adds in some of the background _ooh oohs_ and _yeah yeahs_. 

It’s messy, it’s noisy and it’s probably an insult to Queen fans everywhere. But it’s the happiest Billy’s been in months. _Years_. 

“Thanks, for this,” Billy murmurs as the song fades away into commercials and Steve settles back down to his grapes, “for. Well. Everything, really. For the radio. For sticking around.”

Steve smiles again. It’s not his big, bright one. It’s softer...warmer. 

“Hey, you...you deserve it. You went through a lot, Billy.”

And then Steve’s face is turning serious, and Billy feels the loss of the smile right in his soul. Steve leans in, lowering his voice,

“Did, uh, did anyone actually...do you know what happened?”

Billy’s stomach drops. He knows. Oh, he knows. He relives it every fucking night. 

  
'Look I...I meant it, you went through a lot, and it really sucks, right?" Steve shoves a grape from his hand into his cheek as he says it, a little hamster bulge that Billy can't stop staring at. 

He's not wrong. And the way he says it. So matter of fact. Billy laughs. Little more than a huff of air through his nose and a rasp from his aching throat, but, like all laughs Steve's pulls from him, it's real and it feels good and he likes the way Steve smiles back and ducks his head a little as he swallows,

"It’s like...it's...just. You've been thrown in this crazy world of fucking...monsters and psychic kids and...I dunno, other freakin' worlds or some shit,"

And Steve's getting animated now, hands flapping and head bobbing and that hair dancing with each gesture,

"You're... thrown in and then spat back out with a pat on the head and fuckton of hush money and you just...you gotta be fine. No explanation, no...handy little guide book. Just. Your nightmares are real. Deal with it."

Billy looks at him. There’s a frown on his face, two little lines in between his eyes, and a faint tremor in his hands.

It's the most agitated Billy's ever seen him. 

"Didn’t you get hauled in by the feds, Harrington? Get the whole spiel?" Billy squints at him, squirming a little inside at the memory. The hands on his shoulder, the way he could feel their fingers curling through the thin cotton of his hospital gown. The fact that those hands were the only thing keeping him upright at that point, “They whisked me off for a goddamn debrief as soon as the docs had tied off the final stitch.”

Steve winced at Billy’s words and then nodded, a little too quickly, "Oh, yeah, lemme guess, three guys in suits and you in that room. The...the one with the lights that all keep-" Steve flutters his hand near his eyes, "-flickering?"

Billy gives him a look, and Steve drops his hand, "And the...the thing? They make you sign? Practically a novel? All those pages in teeny writing and so many words I'd never even…" He trails off, "Well you probably understood it. But it's not. It's not an explanation."

Billy shrugs,

"'S some shady government shit, right? They explained enough with their big fat cheque and a promise that someone will come by and blow my brains out if I say too much."

Steve cringes again, but he’s nodding, “Yeah, that’s...they gave me that speech too.” He’s quiet for a few moments, staring down at his shoes and it’s...unsettling. 

“Easy to get lost in thought when it’s unfamiliar territory,” Billy tries to lighten the mood. It’s an awful attempt. Cheap and cheesy, but Steve gives a small smile anyway,

“Guess I only just realised how fucked up the whole thing is.” 

And Billy can only hum in agreement.

  
They both brood on it for a few minutes, before the silence is broken by a cheery,

_'Jitterbug_

_Jitterbug'_

Steve’s face brightens instantly, “Oh! I love this song!” he gushes, at the exact same moment that Billy groans and shoots a hand out to try and shut it off.

“No, Harrington. No. I am recovering. This kinda shit could set me back months.”

Billy misses the power button, catching the volume wheel instead and filling the room with more cheery music and Steve's reaching over to grab his hand away, swinging Billy's arm as he dance walks next to the bed, "Come on! You _can't_ hate this. Even you."

Steve lets Billy's arm drop, but continues his shimmy around the room, adding stumbling twirls and random finger-pointing back at Billy.

As the song gets going, Steve even starts singing along. And he definitely can't ' _hit that high_ ', but it doesn't stop him trying, but it's the West Side Story style walk and finger-click that has Billy laughing, Steve advancing towards him in a crouch, not quite getting the right rhythm. 

Billy shakes his head and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, "Jesus, Harrington. Please. For my sanity. For my health. The good of all mankind. Your own fucking reputation. You _have_ to stop that."

Neither of them point out that Billy is close enough to the stereo to switch it off or turn it down. Or that Billy went right back to watching Steve's 'routine'. Or that, no matter how much he groans, Billy is actually grinning from ear to ear.

  
As the song ends, Steve flops dramatically back into his chair and then he gasps. Billy jolts, opening his eyes to see Steve’s bright, beaming face, "Oh! Shit! I nearly forgot!” 

And he's all motion again, scrabbling under the seat for the big duffel bag he'd brought in earlier.

Billy wonders if he's getting more grapes. Maybe some oranges he's gonna juggle.

“I got your tapes too. Well, Max helped. And I promise. No Wham! in sight.”

  
Steve puts one in at random, gentle, soft notes filling the air, and Steve smirks as soon as he recognises the tune.

  
Billy immediately blushes, pulling a face, “That’s not mine,” 

Steve grin only grows as _I Can’t Fight This Feeling_ continues, holding up his hands in mock surrender, “Hey, it was in your room, man.”

Billy huffs, reaching out in desperation for the stop button, but Steve knocks his hand away gently, “Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head, “Let’s give it another minute. Just to be sure it’s not yours.”

Billy flops back onto his pillow with a dramatic sigh as the lyrics reach his ear,

 _I can't fight this feeling any longer  
_ _And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow_

He gulps. He hears the words and then he really _hears_ them. There’s something not entirely unpleasant twisting in his stomach and the hot prickle of a blush spreading on his cheeks.

 _What started out as friendship, has grown stronger  
_ _I only wish I had the strength to let it show_

He tries again, looking at Steve with pleading eyes, “This is the wrong side, anyway. The other side’s not so sappy.”  
  
_I tell myself that I can't hold out forever_ _  
_ _I said there is no reason for my fear  
_ _'Cause I feel so secure when we're together  
  
_ Steve’s answering smirk is _wicked._ “Thought it wasn’t yours.”

 _You give my life direction  
_ _You make everything so clear_  
  


And Billy knows he’s screwed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me about Harringrove on Tumblr! I'm [CherryDreamer](https://cherrydreamer.tumblr.com/)


	2. And Even as I Wander, I'm Keeping you in Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Didn’t think this was your kind of thing, Harrington” 
> 
> Steve turns to look at him, "Guess I'm full of surprises, huh?" 
> 
> Billy must be imagining the purr in Steve's tone. The way it comes out kinda...flirty. A challenge. A hint of King Steve in between the warm eyes and dorky finger drumming. 
> 
> Billy swallows, "Y-yeah. Wouldn't have, uh, wouldn't have thought I'd...we'd be, uh-"  
> He's flustered, already wrong-footed by the shock of Steve watching him earlier, and now Steve's here and sitting so close and saying things like that and his eyes are flicking down to look at Billy's lips and _damn_ there's a glimpse of pink as Steve’s tongue darts out, just for a second, before he smirks, "You ok, Hargrove? Wanna try that again?"
> 
>  _Wanna try something else,_ Billy thinks.

Billy keeps the radio on constantly for the next few nights. It drowns out the silence. And the things he hears in the silence.  
He finds a station that plays nothing but 60s hits, goes to sleep listening to The Supremes, Donovan, The Beach Boys.  
He dreams about his mom. About her singing in a sunlit kitchen. About her on the beach. About being happy.   
And, for the first time in months, he actually starts to feel rested.

Steve even catches him singing along to _A World Without Love_ one morning. Billy’s not sure how long he’d been standing there, he just turns around to find him leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets and a look of utter warmth and fondness on his face.  
For Billy, it’s like looking into the sun. Too much. Too bright. So he stammers out a pathetic excuse about not being able to find any other station.  
If anything, Steve’s fond look grows even softer as he rolls his eyes, sitting right down on the bed next to Billy, so close that their thighs are touching, before he leans over, twisting the dials until they’re back on something a little more modern. 

_Something happens  
_ _And I'm head over heels  
_ _Ah, don't take my heart, don't break my heart._

Steve nods along, drumming his fingers on his jeans, and Billy doesn’t hate it.  
He doesn’t move away, and Billy doesn’t hate that either.

“Didn’t think this was your kind of thing, Harrington” 

Steve turns to look at him, "Guess I'm full of surprises, huh?" 

Billy must be imagining the purr in Steve's tone. The way it comes out kinda...flirty. A challenge. A hint of King Steve in between the warm eyes and dorky finger drumming. 

Billy swallows, "Y-yeah. Wouldn't have, uh, wouldn't have thought I'd...we'd be, uh-"

He's flustered, already wrong-footed by the shock of Steve watching him earlier, and now Steve's here and sitting so close and saying things like _that_ and his eyes are flicking down to look at Billy's lips and _damn_ there's a glimpse of pink as Steve’s tongue darts out, just for a second, before he smirks, "You ok, Hargrove? Wanna try that again?"

 _Wanna try something else_ , Billy thinks. 

And if it had been before, before all _this_ , he would've said it. He would've been all cocky and smooth and there would've been a wink or a 'doll' or a 'beautiful' or maybe even a hand reaching out to rest against a waist or a cheek.

He's kidding himself. Even _before_ , he wouldn't have done that with Steve.

But it doesn't matter. Because Steve's dropped the smirk. And he's...he's fond again. Like he knows why Billy's stumbling, like he maybe even likes it. And his fingers aren't drumming anymore, but they're reaching, his little finger inching out to tap against Billy's, a nudge that turns into Steve linking them together.

 _Friends forever. Pinkie swear_.

"Steve," Billy's whisper is a tone of reverence, of utter devotion. 

"Yeah?" Steve leans in, his hand resting over Billy's, his face edging closer. Billy leans in too, and he can't _breathe._ Can't _think._ Daren't _hope._

They’re interrupted by a knock at the door, barely have time to spring apart before some tall, scrawny nurse is barging in, a metal trolley clanking behind her. Billy wants to smash it into her bony legs. Wants to scream at her and throw her on the trolley and push them both out the corridor and down the damn stairs.

“Off the bed,” she barks at Steve, who rolls his eyes and pushes himself backwards, shuffling over the crumpled sheets and back into his usual chair. 

She’s just as brusque with the radio, slamming her hand on the power button and glaring at Billy as soon as it falls silent,  
“There’s absolutely no need for all this noise, young man. You’re here to recover, not for a disco.” 

She turns to the trolley as Billy lies himself back down on the bed, resigning himself for whatever poking and prodding he needs before she hands out his little cup of pills and trundles off on her merry way.

He wonders if Steve will want to sit close again.  
Wonders if he imagined the whole thing.

He looks up at the nurse, his whole body flooding with cold dread as she takes out a syringe, holding it up to the light and giving it a tap. Billy's mouth goes dry. His heart, already racing, is now hammering so hard and fast he can feel it in his ears.

"No...no I don't need this today. Vicky does it anyway,"

He tries to hide the shake in his voice but he. He hates the needles.  
And he knows it sounds stupid, and that anytime he says it, people take one look at his tattoo and scoff, but that's...different. That was him finally getting ownership over his body. One damn mark that wasn't put there by someone else. A permanent reminder that, no matter what happened, he'd got something of his own that no one could take away. 

The needles at the hospital are the opposite.  
They make him sick. Make him tense. Make him feel all prickly with cold and shaky and. Scared. Small. Unprotected.   
Vicky knows. She's the only one who could get close to him at first. She gave him a pillow to hide his face in and didn't comment when it came back wet. She knew how to talk to him, how to distract him, how to deal with the panic that came before and after.   
He doesn't let anyone else do it. They know that.

And it shouldn't happen when Steve's here.   
He'd already seen a lot. Seen Billy inching his way to the bathroom, all his weight slumped over a walker.   
He's seen Billy's scars, his weakened body, his greasy hair and the flaring rashes on his skin- side effects of the medication.  
But he doesn't see this. Vicky made sure of it. Made sure that Billy got that, at least. One moment of being at his lowest without a fucking audience.   
It's not. It's not _fair._

"Vicky's not in this week," grunts the nurse. Billy doesn't even know her name. Ratched, most likely. She doesn't like him, never has. Never gives him enough water with his pills. "So it's my job now. Like I didn't have enough to do,"

She's rough when she grabs his wrist again, shoving his sleeve out of the way to bare the skin by his elbow, "Let's get that arm out. C'mon…"

She runs a thumb over his skin and Billy flinches. Hard. Jerks his arm away and draws it back to his chest. He shakes his head. A tiny movement, barely there and he knows that no one's gonna take any notice, no one ever does but he...he can't help it. 

There's a tut from the nurse, and Billy knows he's being dumb. Being a pussy. But he can't.  
She grabs for him again, and Billy holds firm while she shakes her head, "You're not my only patient, you know. I haven't got time for this silly behaviour."

It's only a mild rebuke, but it hurts, making his throat burn with the threat of tears. Because it _is_ silly. He knows that. He tries to swallow, but it’s too late, and a blink sends tears of humiliation spilling down his cheeks.  
He knows it'll all be over soon. If he just shoves his arm out, and lets it happen. 

But he _can't._

And then Steve's leaning closer again, his fingertips tapping on Billy's shoulder, getting him to turn, to face away from the nurse and look at Steve instead.  
Kind brown eyes lock on his, a couple of moles on his cheek, a rasping of stubble along his chin.  
Steve licks his lips, and Billy's eyes track the movement hungrily.

"Hey,"

Steve wiggles his body, nudging the chair across the floor and moving it closer to the bed without getting up. It's a kind of thrusting move as he fights the friction of the chair's rubber feet against the floor, and Billy can't help but be mesmerised.  
Finally, Steve gets himself comfortable. And then he's leaning even closer to Billy, a smile crossing his face,   
"Hey, uh, I was gonna bring you some more tapes today, get you some of the new stuff, but I guess I don't really know what you like. Other than, uh, not Wham!, I guess."

Steve's voice is warm, and his smile is that soft one again, and Billy lets it all wash over him, chasing away the nurse's words still ringing in his ear.  
He's managing, managing to focus on Steve. There's a rough hand on his arm again, but this time Steve is also reaching out on the other side, his gentle fingers wrapping around Billy's forearm, pressing down in a light, reassuring squeeze.   
So Billy finally lets it happen. Lets the nurse grab him and roll up his sleeve.  
He can give up his whole left arm now he has Steve's hand on his right. Now he has Steve's voice, whisper-quiet, against his ear. Billy having to focus all of his attention on hearing the words.

"So I asked Max. She said you like Billy Ocean, right. Lovergirl?" Steve's voice is lightly teasing, and it’s just as soft as his smile and his eyes, and that’s all that Billy knows. He's barely feeling the wet wipe on his skin. Not even noticing the pressure by his elbow.

Billy swallows, gets his breath under control, manages to eek out a whisper through the ache in his throat, "That was, uh, no...," there's a pause. A rustle of fabric as the nurse moves. Billy closes his eyes in anticipation, but he keeps talking, "Billy Ocean is Loverboy,"

There's a scratch. Sharp. Intense.   
Billy winces, his last syllable turning into a squeak.  
His hand twitches, fingers reaching out in little, abortive motions, and Steve moves his hand down, stroking against Billy's wrist and then slipping his fingers into the spaces between Billy's. Holding. He runs a thumb over Billy’s knuckle, back and forth, and his gaze never drops, but he raises an eyebrow and smiles smugly, 

"Oh, so you _do_ know?"

Steve's fingers tighten when the nurse shifts to get the next syringe, and he keeps talking, keeps Billy’s attention through it all, asking whether Billy likes Billy Idol too. Whether it's something about the name.   
“Bet you even like Billy Joel,” Steve murmurs, and he starts singing _Uptown Girl,_ quiet little 'whoa whoa whoas', squeezing the beat into Billy's hand as the last needle is finally pulled out.

And Billy doesn't feel any pain.  
There's none of the lingering burning, the queasiness that normally follows. And although his cheeks are damp, his eyes are dry now and the hammering of his heart isn’t because of fear.  
Steve's hand stays on his until the nurse moves away, his thumb keeping up its gentle passes over Billy’s skin.   
He even waits until Billy’s breath is back under control before he pulls away. 

And then he stands up

“I’m gonna, uh, bathroom? And maybe some snacks, yeah? You, uh, probably want some sugar after that whole…” Steve’s fingers dance in the air, and Billy flushes with shame at what he’s referring to.   
He’s not surprised that Steve wants to leave, not after seeing Billy acting like such a damn pussy. It _is_ embarrassing, crying like that and needing a hand hold for a shot like a fucking toddler.

Billy just nods, and Steve dashes out without looking back. Billy figures he’s not coming back.   
He thinks back to the warmth of Steve’s leg pressed against his, their fingers linked, their faces close.   
The way it was almost like he wanted to-  
Billy’s stomach flutters and he cuts off _that_ train of thought before it can go any further. It’s not like Steve _would_ . And it’s only gonna hurt to pretend that he _might_ .   
Not that it matters anyway. Steve’s not coming back now.

And then he does. Steve does come back, and he does bring candy. There’s half a Snickers hanging out of his mouth when he bursts into the room, and another one in his hand which he throws onto Billy’s lap,

“Hey, hey! Turn the radio on!” 

The shout is muffled through the caramel and nougat, but Steve's frantic hand gesture at the stereo helps Billy to figure it out, he presses the power button and fills the room with sound again.

It’s Heart, the tail end of _What About Love_ and Steve sighs with relief as he settles back into the chair, taking another bite of chocolate into his already full mouth. Billy gives him a confused look, reaching for his own chocolate and taking a more polite bite, "What, you worried about the traffic? Wanna hear their Eye in the Sky before you-"

Steve's swallowing frantically, flapping his hand again until he can talk, “Sssh, ssshh! Listen!” He points at the radio and Billy falls silent.

It’s the DJ, not the calming, deep voice of the night time guy, but the annoyingly animated tones of the daytime duo, the ones with the cheesy in-jokes and regular callers and too many damn sound effects.

“ _Ok guys we’ve got a request, this one is from Steve out there in Hawkins and it goes out to his buddy Billy, stuck in hospital right now. Oof! That’s rough. Hope you’re listening right now and have a big 'get well soon' from all of us at WWED radio_!” 

And then those fucking opening notes again.

 _Oh, I can't fight this feeling any longer  
_ _And yet, I'm still afraid to let it flow_

Billy turns to Steve who looks at him, eyes all big and innocent and a smear of chocolate at the corner of his mouth.

"'S your favourite? Right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The radio station totally stands for What Would Erica Do? Because I love her.


	3. And I'm Getting Closer than I Ever Thought I Might

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy hadn’t really thought about what would happen once he left the hospital. He’d stopped thinking about the world outside the squat, white building and had focused only on his recovery. On all the damn physical therapy and the drugs they pumped into him and the godawful sessions with some shrink all dressed in beige.
> 
> And Steve. He focused a lot on Steve. Because Steve had been there for all of it. 

Billy hadn’t really thought about what would happen once he left the hospital. He’d stopped thinking about the world outside the squat, white building and had focused only on his recovery. On all the damn physical therapy and the drugs they pumped into him and the godawful sessions with some shrink all dressed in beige.

And Steve. He focused a lot on Steve. Because Steve had been there for all of it. 

For the good and for the bad and the absolutely downright shitty. Bringing food when Billy was well enough to eat, and smoothies when he wasn’t; bringing more and more tapes- fresh releases and old favourites, remembering artists and albums that Billy mentioned in passing; bringing books and magazines and even a handheld video game thing Billy never quite got the hang of and then spending hours and hours sitting with Billy, gradually moving from curling in the uncomfortable chair to hastily toeing off his Nikes so he could perch at the foot of Billy’s bed with his back against the footboard as his legs pressed against Billy’s.

And, of course, there was Steve’s new favourite way to cheer Billy up on the worst day. The fail-safe of calling in more and more of those damn radio shout outs, picking the songs he knows will rile Billy up the most, and teaming the request with some sappy little message about how they’re Billy’s absolute favourites, how he likes singing along to _The Power of Love_ or how the lyrics of _Like a Virgin_ mean so much to him right now, and then sitting back and laughing at Billy’s expression when the request gets read out, both of them knowing that Billy will go through the process of faux anger, then silent sulks until a grin finally cracks his facade.   
No matter how bad the song it is, whether it’s Wham! or Duran Duran or that damn REO Speedwagon one again, Billy never turns the radio off.   
Because it does make it better. 

Steve always made Billy feel better.

And then there'd been one time.   
One time when Steve turned up looking awful. He was late anyway and Billy hadn't been worried, he hadn't, even if that would have been a totally natural response, when you remember exactly what kind of things _could_ happen in Hawkins.  
He'd just been concerned. A little.  
Concern which only grew when Steve finally turned up looking...terrible. Still beautiful, of course, but terrible.  
His face wasn't even pale, it was grey- washed out with dark circles under his eyes and two furrowed lines on his forehead, and his hair was messy, flat on one side like he hadn't even touched it since getting out of bed. But it was his stance, the way his head was hanging, the tightness in his shoulders and the way he had his arms wrapped tightly around himself that really showed how much he must be hurting. 

Billy knew Steve got headaches. Bad ones. It had come up in conversation after Billy had some horrific reaction to a new drug; one that made his head pound and left him seeing a flickering halo around everything. Steve had been the one to hold out the cardboard bowl and then rub his back while he heaved, and then he'd cut off Billy's frantic apologies with his own tales of vomit splattered sheets and days spent curled up in a dark room. 

"I guess the Russians hit me pretty hard, and Owens thinks the drugs might've done something too, but hey," he'd shrugged, tapping at his temples with a fist, "I've had three years' worth of knocks to the head and it's not like I was Harvard material before anyway so…"

And knowing that he was one of those knocks made Billy feel awful. And he'd apologised for it. Multiple times. Or tried to, at least. Steve had waved them off each time, until he finally saw the sincerity in Billy's face and acknowledged the faltering words. Told him to leave it at that. That they’d all been through enough to make a high-school rivalry seem trivial in comparison. He hadn’t used those exact words, and there’d been a lot more hand gestures and shrugs, but Billy understood what he meant.

So it hadn’t purely been guilt that twisted Billy’s gut when he saw Steve wincing and hanging his head. There was something more. Something that had Billy wishing he could reach out and take on Steve’s pain for himself, deal with it all so Steve never had to hurt again.

But he couldn’t. So Billy did what he could to try and make things easier. He turned the radio right down and kept his voice to a whisper, "You drive?" 

"No. Couldn’t. Bus." Steve barely moved his mouth to say the words, and God, Billy's own head ached in sympathy. He knows that by 'bus', Steve actually meant two buses, one of which took the longest damn route possible, and a twenty minute walk in between.

"You puke yet?" Billy asked. He knew it helped, sometimes, that Steve could be in absolute agony and then back to normal the second he'd finished hurling.

Steve gave the slightest nod and held up two shaky fingers.

Billy's heart sank. This was a _bad_ one.

"Go home," he said, his own frustration and worry making it sound gruffer than intended, Steve's head jerked up at that, wincing at the sudden move, and Billy's softened his tone, "I mean, go home and sleep, Steve. You need it."

Steve gave his head the tiniest shake, "I... it's...my parents are having some work done. There's workmen and tools and it's-" He took a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut and dropped his head back down, "Loud. Too much."

He kept his eyes closed, and Billy wondered if he'd fallen asleep standing up, like a damn horse. And then Steve sighed, a sad, defeated sound, "But, maybe. Yeah...I'm being dumb. This can't be any fun for you. I'll, uh, I'll head out. I’ll..maybe? Sleep on the bus?"

And _fuck no_ to that. Billy pulled himself up and half out of bed, reaching for his walker, "Fucking. Lie down Steve,” he grunted with the effort of grabbing the silver frame.

"I'm not taking your bed," Steve muttered, keeping his head down as he makes his way over to the chair and flopping down to lean sideways with his head resting against the stack of books on the bedside table, eyes screwed shut. Billy shuffled around, inching the walker forward as he stepped slowly towards the window. It was a balancing act, trying to lean far enough to reach the blind cord without letting go of the walker's frame, but Billy managed it, tugging on the plastic beads and casting the room into a hazy darkness. The sigh of relief from Steve was worth all the cramping pain in Billy's legs,  
  
"Thanks," Steve whispered, opening one eye to watch as Billy made his slow, cautious way back from the window, "oh, shit, I could've done that."

"Yeah. Well, it's done now. Nurse Gladys says I need the practice anyway," Billy grunted with the effort of transitioning from the walker onto the very edge of the bed, "Now come and lie down."

"Billy, I'm not gonna steal-'

"You won't, there's room for us both. Come _on_. Making my damn neck ache looking at you all crooked over like that." 

"OK," Steve gave him a weak smile, toeing off his shoes and lowering himself down onto the bed, "Just an hour though, just to take...take the edge off." The last bit is garbled, Steve clearly fighting back a yawn, and Billy chuckled, 

"Whatever, I was gonna read today, easier to do that without you yammering away." He reached for one of his books. But there was no way he could focus on any plot right now, no way his head had room for anything that isn't SteveSteve _Steve_ and his honey sweet hair and his soft skin and his warm body, forced to press tightly against Billy's in the small bed. Billy's only plan had been to spend every hour that Steve stayed asleep just relishing the moment, committing it to memory.

When he was sure that Steve was asleep, when his breathing had evened out and that little crease between his eyebrows had smoothed, Billy reached out a hand to turn on the radio, volume down, back on the oldies station. The song was familiar and Billy couldn't help but murmur along, keeping his voice low, hardly audible over the radio. 

_The warmth of your love's like the warmth of the sun  
_ _And this will be our year, took a long time to come_

Steve shuffled, his head falling onto Billy's shoulders, and it felt right for Billy to lay a hand on those soft brown waves, even softer without any hairspray holding them up. It felt right for his fingers to rub slow circles onto Steve's scalp, light touches, no intent beyond helping to relieve some of Steve's tension and lessen his pain. Steve sighed, stirring a little and Billy stilled his hand,

"D'n stop. 'S'nice..." Steve slurred, and Billy was powerless at that. He didn’t stop. He wouldn’t. As long as Steve allowed it, Billy would take full advantage.

 _And I won't forget  
_ _The way you held me up when I was down_

It would be enough. Billy had thought. If this was all he got.  
Once he got ‘better’, or good enough to be let out, if Steve upped and left and they ended up only exchanging awkward small talk whenever Max wanted to rent out a video, then Billy would have this moment and it would be enough. And it would hurt, of course it would hurt, but it was more than he thought he’d ever get.

And it would have to be enough.

 _And I won't forget the way you said  
_ _"Darling I love you, you gave me faith to go on"_


	4. Bring This Ship Into the Shore and Throw Away the Oars, Forever.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ooh, oooh! Billy, Bill! Listen!”  
> Despite the futility of it, despite knowing that there’s nothing to see, knowing that it’s all one of Steve’s damn ploys, Billy finds himself turning to look too. As expected, Steve takes advantage of his distraction to wriggle out of his hold, but he doesn’t move any further, just lets his hands rest in his lap as he smirks up at Billy, “It's your fav-ourite!" he sings, teasingly, and Billy’s groaning before he’s even fully registered what he’s hearing.  
> Because of course, it's that song again.  
> Billy wants to reach over. Shut it off. Turn it down. Find something else, literally anything else.  
> Not because he hates it.  
> But because it’s too close. Too much. 

  
Billy’s been out of hospital a week, and Steve has stuck around.  
He’d stayed late on Billy’s last night there, batting his eyelashes and getting special permission from the non-mean nurse, as long as he’d promised to leave as soon as Billy started to feel tired. So Billy had forced himself to stay awake even as his eyes burned and he could barely speak for suppressing yawns, all because Steve was spending the night pressed to his side, giggling at whatever late night talk show they’d decided to watch on the crappy portable TV in Billy’s room.  
Billy couldn’t even tell you a single one of the guests that had been on that night. Couldn’t even tell you the host.  
But he was certain he could remember the location of every single one of the freckles and moles on Steve’s forearms, especially the ones that had pressed right against Billy’s now-paler skin. 

And now Steve's in his room.  
Billy's room. At Cherry Lane. Which looks pretty much exactly the same as it did before...everything, bar a few small changes. Additions. A pair of crutches leaning up against the wall that Billy's not ever gonna use, more sweaters and hoodies in the wardrobe because Billy got cold now. And a silver boombox. Because Steve insisted.  
And now Steve. The latest addition.

Billy had thought he was hallucinating when he heard the familiar voice following the ring of the doorbell, a splash of Harrington charm directed at Susan, a butter-wouldn't-melt smile and _'I'm here to help Billy catch up with school work_ ' and now Steve's in his house. In his room.  
And he even brought props. Actual books. Billy admires his commitment to the bit when he sees the copies of Gatsby, Catcher, Hamlet and some science textbooks in absolutely pristine condition. 

And he's also brought a punnet of strawberries. A little wicker basket of them that he’s already half-emptied; Billy can see the tell-tale stain of red on his fingertips and the discarded green leaves of the leftover strawberry tops on the top of the untouched berries. 

Billy feels like a guest in his own room as Steve lazes on Billy's bed, making himself at home. Stretches out on faded sheets and pops a strawberry into his mouth. It's plump and juicy and bright red and it should be illegal how good it looks when his teeth break into it and a tiny drop of strawberry juice stains his lips. Steve catches Billy's hungry stare and holds out the basket with a guilty look, “Sorry, man, I wasn’t thinking.”

Billy takes a strawberry, because it seems easier than explaining what he was _actually_ staring at, and eats it without even tasting it. "So what do you wanna do?"

Steve shrugs, reaching for another strawberry, "Do we need to _do_ anything?” he bites down on the berry, hollowing his cheeks and sucking a little to free it from the leaves, and Billy- thankfully- manages to look away this time, “Happy just to, y’know. Chat. Chill. Whatever we usually do.”

They slip back into it pretty easily, even if this time it's Steve lounging on the bed while Billy perches on the edge of the couch. The radio is on low, just a murmuring from the DJ, a traffic bulletin which uses the phrase _bumper to bumper_ far too many times for such a small town. Some awful local ads, cheesy jingles and badly acted skits. It fades into the background as Billy focuses on Steve's words instead. He’s chattering about some customer he had to deal with, some awful woman who’d been furious that Steve had let her kid rent out a ‘filthy movie’, berating him in front of Keith and at least three other customers before they managed to work out that she’d only seen the title of the film, and then Steve had to spend ten minutes convincing her that ‘ _Babes in Toyland_ ’ was actually a perfectly innocent, if not exactly _good_ , film. 

By the end of it, Steve can hardly get the story out for laughing, and what does make it out between his giggles doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but his attempts to imitate the woman’s haughty voice, and then her squeak of utter shame as she dashes out of the store at the end is enough to have Billy spluttering too, choking on the chunk of strawberry he’d managed to grab before Steve finished off the punnet. Their laughs tail off to leave a comfortable silence, and Billy reaches for one of the pieces of paper strewn across the floor. Some old notes from a summer essay he never needed to finish because...well. He had other priorities.   
He screws it up into a ball, “Think fast,” and hurls it at Steve who, to his credit, raises the basket in his hands and catches it smoothly before raising an eyebrow.  
And then it’s on.  
Billy scrambles for more paper, ripping his notes in half to make twice the amount of ammunition and then firing them at Steve, aiming high and low and off to the side, forcing Steve to scramble and duck and dive to catch them all in his basket.  
It’s silly. Childish. But it has them both laughing again, Billy gasping for breath when Steve overreaches and tumbles from the bed to land in a sprawled heap at Billy’s feet.

“Asshole, you did that on purpose,” Steve grumbles, grabbing at Billy’s knee to pull himself upwards, and Billy freezes at the contact, at the brush of Steve’s fingers against his thigh, the press of Steve’s weight as he rises. At how _good_ it feels. He barely notices when Steve moves away, he’s still feeling the ghost of Steve’s hand on him.

Until Steve upturns the now-filled basket over Billy’s head, showering him in paper balls and then letting the basket drop like a hat over Billy’s curls.  
It takes Billy a second to register what’s happened, and then he’s up, bolting up from the couch,

“You fucking. _Harrington_ !” Billy growls, tipping the basket from his head and shaking off a couple of green strawberry leaves that had fallen out of it and nestled in his hair. He strides over to Steve who’s huddled on the bed, back pushed against the wall and hands held up in a mix of self defense and surrender. Billy might’ve worried, if not for the uncontrollable laughter coming from Steve as he tucks himself further into the corner,  
“Truce! Sorry! Billy, no! Truce! I didn’t mean it! No!”

“No mercy, Harrington. You start something, you better be damn sure you’re gonna finish it.” Billy scoops up a handful of the discarded strawberry tops, sprinkling them down in a green rain onto Steve’s head, using his fingers to really bury them into Steve’s hair. 

“Ugh no, no. Dirty tactics, man. That’s unfair!” Steve whines, shaking his head wildy and trying to push Billy away, but Billy isn’t about to give in that easily, even at half strength, with weakened muscles and already out of breath, he can just about hold Steve back. But he’s forgotten how damn sneaky Steve could be. And no sooner has Billy got one of Steve’s wrists in his hand, than Steve’s head flicks to the stereo, the news and weather reports having given way to the usual music show.  
And his whole face lights up,

“Ooh, oooh! Billy, Bill! Listen!”  
Despite the futility of it, despite _knowing_ that there’s nothing to see, knowing that it’s all one of Steve’s damn ploys, Billy finds himself turning to look too. As expected, Steve takes advantage of his distraction to wriggle out of his hold, but he doesn’t move any further, just lets his hands rest in his lap as he smirks up at Billy, “It's your fav-ourite!" he sings, teasingly, and Billy’s groaning before he’s even fully registered what he’s hearing.  
Because _of course_ , it's that song again.  
Billy wants to reach over. Shut it off. Turn it down. Find something else, literally anything else.  
Not because he hates it.  
But because it’s too close. Too much. 

_I tell myself that I can't hold out forever..._

But then Steve is jumping up, turning up the stereo on his way to Billy's dresser where he grabs up a can of Billy’s deodorant and holds it like a microphone to his mouth. He starts singing. Badly.

 _Cause I feel so secure when we're together.  
_ _You give my life direction  
_ _You make everything so clear_

The chorus is coming round again, and Steve's still wailing, still holding on to the deodorant can and giving it his all. Eyes screwed up and one fist grasping in the air, pulling down.  
It's terrible. But something about Steve's confidence elevates it. He's not taking himself seriously, but he doesn't look silly. He looks...good.   
It's nearly too much for Billy. To hear Steve saying those words, hear him singing lyrics that could have been ripped straight out of Billy's head and his heart and his damn _soul_ and to know he's just...playing. Joking around. 

_'And I'm getting closer than I ever thought I might'_

Steve's mouth isn't quite matching the words pouring out of the stereo, but the emotion is there in spades. His eyes are open now and he's staring out at Billy, his grin fading into that soft, fond smile as he reaches out a grasping hand and sings, perfectly synced this time,   
'Baby, I can't fight this feeling any more.'

Billy moves closer. His own hand rising in a mirror image. 

And then there's a bang. A pounding on the door, and Billy flies back to put some distance between them both as Neil throws the door open, standing in the doorway and looking far too calm to be safe.   
Because calm is never actually just calm with Neil. Calm means simmering anger. Means the white fury that's even worse than the red kind. Burns hotter. Hurts worse.  
Steve pauses, deodorant can still at his mouth,

"Hey Mr. Hargrove, sorry. We'll, uh, we'll keep it down."

He's smiling. The Harrington charm again. Pair it with the big eyes and the pressed polo shirts and he could talk the birds from the trees. But Neil's not even looking at him. He takes in the room instead, the mess of paper balls on the couch and spilling onto the floor, the red smear where Steve had wiped a strawberry covered hand on Billy’s sheets, the unopened school books left in a pile on the dresser.  
And then he looks at Billy. Notices a leaf still stuck in his curls. Must take in his flushed expression.

"Billy? A word?" Neil walks out. 

Billy follows. A dog at heel. He begs, silently, for Steve to stay put.  
Probably should beg for something else too.  
But at least he has a chance of getting the first one.

Neil doesn’t take him far, just out into the kitchen, close enough for Billy to still see his bedroom door. Close enough to Steve that shame prickles through Billy at the thought of being seen like this, pressed up against the cabinets, door handles digging into his back and Neil’s fingers holding his chin in a vice grip as he hisses right into Billy’s face,  
"I think your friend should leave."  
It's the way he says ‘ _friend_ ’. Loaded. Accusatory. Disgusted. And it's the way he can't let Billy have one good thing. One moment. Because it's not _fair_ . They’d been having fun. Billy had been laughing and carefree and happy. For once.  
"We'll be quiet." His answer slips out more petulantly than he’d intended, and it’s the wrong thing to say. The tighter squeeze of Neil’s fingers tells him that much, but Billy’s attention is drawn to a flicker of movement in his periphery. A presence at his doorway. Steve might be hanging back but Billy's house isn't big enough for him not to be seeing exactly what Neil's about to do. Hearing it too.

Billy never gets what he wants.  
Neil hasn't noticed. His eyes are locked on Billy. Predator on prey. And Billy wonders what Neil actually wanted today. Whether eye contact was respect, or cockiness, whether Billy could have given a right answer, or if this was going to be the outcome no matter what.  
The rules changed so often. Kept Billy guessing. On his toes.  
Billy knows one thing though, and that is that he won't look at Steve. He doesn't want to see the look on his face. The disgust, the pity, the open mouthed shock that he'd never be able to hide.  
And he really didn't want Neil to follow his gaze, didn't want his attention anywhere near Steve.   
Billy trains his eyes on the floor instead, staring so intensely at the toes of Neil's slippers that the image starts to waver.  
"I'm sorry, sir."  
It’s automatic.   
Just like the way he freezes when Neil tilts Billy’s chin up, forcing him to make eye contact.  
Wrong again.  
Neil’s other hand raises, and Billy steels himself. 

“Hey!” 

Billy cringes again. It’s Steve, calling out from the bedroom,

“Hey! Billy, I’ve gotta go now. Can you, uh, can you just come lemme know which of my notes you need? OK?"

They hadn't been looking at any notes. But it's worked. Neil lowers his hand.   
Fuck, Steve's smart. He's good. Really good.

Neil's eyes are hard, “Dinner’s in twenty minutes. Set the table." 

Billy nods once, sharply, "Yes, sir." and Neil steps back, taking in Billy’s relieved expression with a sneer and raising his hand again. Neil doesn't hit him. Not really. It's a light tap against his cheek, but it's enough and Billy flinches anyway.   
And Neil nods. Satisfied.

Billy gives himself exactly two seconds to breathe and force the tears back down before he strides into his bedroom to find Steve standing by the bed, backpack in his hands, trying to look casual, like he didn’t see what he saw. Like he didn’t just do the dumbest, smartest, kindest thing.

Steve coughs, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, "Your dad's a little intense, isn't he?" 

Defensiveness mingles with shame, and Billy knows what he has to say, "He's busy at the moment, he gets tired. We were loud and he needs... He-"

Steve cuts him off, "Would he have...if I’d not. Would he have hurt you?"

Billy's silence says enough, and he waits for the pity. But instead, Steve is angry. Cold, white fury that more than matches Neil's. It's there, under the surface. Billy's never seen an anger like that used in his defense before.

"That's not, that's not…He shouldn't be doing that, Bill."

Billy doesn't really know what to say to that. He thinks he knows it. Knows deep down that other fathers don't hit their kids like Neil does. That other fathers don’t kick their kids out without dinner or the chance to grab a jacket just for _having an attitude_ . But he'd also known, or thought he'd known, that he deserved it. He was bad. He got into trouble. He got into fights. He _hurt_ people. Good people like Steve.  
So maybe it was fair.  
  
He doesn’t know how to start explaining it all to Steve. So he just shrugs and nibbles on his thumbnail. What else can he say?   
Steve waits for a moment, sadness in his eyes, and then he turns to grab his backpack from beside the bed,

"I'll go, ok? I don't wanna get you in trouble."

He starts to get his things together, the jacket slung casually over Billy's chair, his sneakers half stuffed under the bed, laces still knotted and backs stretched out from Steve shoving his feet into them, the books they never touched. He's slow. Taking his time. Picking things up and putting them back down again. Meandering around Billy's room with a furrowed brow and his lips turned down at the corners. He pauses, fiddling with the laces of the one Nike he's already shoved onto his foot and shooting a furtive glance at Billy's now open bedroom door,

"Are you..Billy, are you going to be OK? Tonight? I don't wanna leave you if you're not safe."

Billy’s head jerks up at that, and he rips the hangnail from his thumb, leaving three little dots of blood.   
No one's ever… No one’s worried before.  
Not the fourth grade teacher who drove Billy home when no one came for him, who saw the cans of beer littering the kitchen table and the broken glass littering the floor and said nothing.  
Not the cops called out to all the noise complaints in Cali, the ones who saw his mom's tears and her red cheek and her bruised arms but listened to her denials and Neil's explanations and ruffled Billy's hair as they got back in their cars and drove away.  
Not his mom. Barely a month later.   
People leave Billy whether he's safe or not. 

"I'm OK," Billy can't lie, "Probably. If I'm there for dinner and if I don't...mess up. Then yeah, he'll probably leave me alone."

Probably.  
Maybe.  
Hopefully.  
There's no certainty.

Steve presses his lips together, a thin white line, and rubs at his nose with his fist,and Billy can see the anger in him start to bubble,

"I'm getting out soon," Billy says quickly, not sure if it's reassurance or appeasement. "I am."  
And he is. The government cheques have helped a lot, and there's a wad of cash hidden in his sock drawer and he's close, so close. 

"We could...I've been thinking about getting a place too." Steve's not looking at him, he's staring down into his backpack, taking out the book he'd just put away. Turning them round and placing them in again, "Was gonna wait for Robin but she's probably moving away for college anyway so… a two bed would be cheaper, right? Split the rent and get you out even sooner?" Steve abandons the pretend search, moving over to Billy with something clasped in his fist, "Come over to mine tomorrow, we can look at some listings. And, uh-" He presses a key into Billy's hand, "Come over whenever you need to, OK?" 

*

They manage to get a place by the next week.  
Steve’s right, a two-bed does work out cheaper.   
Mind you, most things are cheaper when Mrs Harrington hands over a blank cheque and tells them, ‘you can’t put a price on safety.”  
Billy’s pretty sure that you _can_ , and that it’s more than he could have afforded on his own, but there’s something about the squeeze of her hand on his shoulder that makes him think she’s talking about more than good neighbourhoods.

They end up finding somewhere in a town a couple of hours away from Hawkins. Close enough that Steve can keep an eye on his brats, and Billy can keep an eye on Max. Close enough that he can go get her if he needs to. But they have to cross a river to get there and that...that feels right, for Billy. Makes it feel like a new start. It’s dumb, he’s very aware of that, no more meaningful than a change of area code, but it _feels_ right.   
  
The Harrington’s even help them move. And, by that, Billy means that they pay for a load of new furniture and a van and three burly men to deliver it all. They don’t help _in person_ , of course. They’re already out of town.  
But they _do_ offload about a dozen boxes of their unwanted crockery and cookware, and it takes Steve and Billy the best part of the morning to go through and sort them, separating the finest china from the everyday plates and figuring out which silverware they’re going to be needing on a day to day basis.

"Does she think we're gonna be hosting dinner parties for ants? What even _is_ this?", Billy holds up a tiny spoon, turning it over between his fingers.

Steve has the audacity to not even look ashamed when he answers, "Oh, that's uh, for like...mustard and stuff. Condiments."

Billy raises an eyebrow, “I tend to squeeze mine out of a bottle, man. How the other half fucking make things difficult.”

But Steve’s not listening, instead he’s moved over to the boombox.

Billy hadn’t let the movers touch it, had made sure it was nestled securely in the backseat of the Camaro, wedged between his two duffle bags of clothes his newly-expanded collection of tapes and a few battered boxes of books, and it had been the first thing they’d carried in to the house, setting up and filling the rooms with music before they did anything else.

“Bill. Billy. Just...can you stop, a minute?” Billy looks up, letting the half-unwrapped cutlery in his hand fall back into the box. Probably an oyster fork or a damn quiche knife or something equally fancy and redundant. He takes in Steve’s posture, the tapping of his socked foot on the dusty floorboards, the way his eyes are darting all around. He looks nervous and _that_ , more than anything, has Billy rising from his crouch and coming over to stand next to him.

"Ok.Ok. Ok.” Steve swallows, finally letting his eyes lock onto Billy’s, “So. I got you a present,” he leans to turn up the volume on the stereo, and Billy rolls his eyes,

“If you’ve done another damn phone in. Is _that_ why we had to stop at that diner? All that whining about needing to piss? I _knew_ you were-”  
  
“No.” Steve actually looks a bit annoyed at himself, “Shit, that would’ve been good though. But, uh, kinda. I guess?” He reaches into one of the other boxes, a small one that Steve had insisted on keeping on his lap for the whole drive, and pulls out a tape, handing it over to Billy with a self conscious shrug, “It’s...just look. You’ll get it. I think. I...I hope.”

So Billy looks.  
It’s a mix tape.   
Steve’s not exactly gone all out on the cover art, just a surprising title of ‘Bring This Ship Into the Shore’, the words getting smaller as they get closer to the bottom of the card, and a few hastily scribbled sunshines and wavy lines making a border around the edge. Billy flips it over to glance down at the tracklist, scribbled out in Steve's looping handwriting.

He should’ve guessed track one.   
“Aren’t you fed up of this one by now?" Billy taps on the case, fingernail clicking at ' _Speedwagon_ ', "Joke’s kinda wearing thin, Harrington.”

There's a flush of pink on Steve's cheeks, and his expression is serious when he answers, "I dunno, it's grown on me. I kinda...I like the lyrics."

"Have you actually listened to the lyrics? ‘Cause you thought Paul Young was singing about taking a piece of meat away.” 

Billy’s grinning, waiting for Steve to take the bait and launch into a passionately ludicrous defense of his own mistake, but instead, he’s doing that serious face again. Not scary serious but...warm serious. 

“Yeah, I’ve listened to them. Have you?”

Of course Billy has, he’d even had the damn tape insert out to read them and make sure he was getting them exactly right and that he wasn’t projecting his own feelings out there. “Yeah?” Billy knows he’s not getting something here.  
  
Steve steps forward, “Have you _listened_ to them?” he asks again, more emphasis this time, “C’mon, Billy. I know how smart you are. Do you get what they’re saying?”

Billy shakes his head. Because he might be smart but he’s not lucky. Not this lucky. So he must’ve misjudged something, somewhere.

Steve's smile is gentle but knowing, like he can see right through Billy. Like he knows exactly what Billy’s trying to hide, “It’s ok, lemme show you what they mean.” He loads the tape into the machine, presses play and then holds out his hands. Billy takes them, instantly, raising an eyebrow when Steve starts to sway,

"Always trying to get me to dance, Harrington," he murmurs, and Steve just nods, tugging on Billy's hand as he shuffles back in a faux waltz that doesn't really match the rhythm of the song, 

"Yeah, 's fun. Didn't realise you were from, uh, shit, what's that town in Footloose?"

"You've lost me," Billy shrugs, and Steve just smiles and pulls him in closer as the song starts.

_“I can't fight this feeling any longer_

_And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow_

_What started out as friendship, has grown stronger_

_I only wish I had the strength to let it show.”_

  
Steve’s looking at him, still that warm serious again, "So, the song. It’s uh, it’s all about feeling something, ok? For someone? And I...I get it, Bill. What they're saying. Because. I like you. OK? A lot. And I don’t...I don’t wanna fight it." He pulls back just enough to look at Billy, warm-serious turning into more of a smirk, his eyebrow raising, “Because I think. I think you like me too? Right?”

Steve’s expression is cocky, but Billy can sense the nervousness running through him, his palms are clammy, and he’s nibbling on his bottom lip.  
So Billy puts him out of his misery. 

“Yeah, fuck. Yeah, Steve. I do. Like you.”  
It's like a whole damn weight is off him. Billy feels light. Free. Giddy. And any part of him that was worried it was all a joke, all some mean trick, is quashed the moment he looks at Steve's face and watches his smirk become a real smile. The bright, sunshine kind. The one with crinkled eyes and sparkling eyes and warmth just radiating from every pore.  
Because Steve looks just as light and free as Billy feels inside,  
  
“Yeah? Oh man, oh. Yeah. That’s….yeah.” He giggles, an actual giggle, and Billy leans forward, bumping their noses together when Steve sways them a little faster through the guitar solo, “I thought about it. A lot, " Steve's lips press against the shell of Billy's ear, the tiniest pressure just for a second, and Billy's stomach swoops with it, wondering if there’s more. Wondering if Steve’s going to press his lips anywhere else.

But instead, Steve starts singing to him, a gentle whisper that sends a shiver right down Billy’s spine,

 _My life has been such a whirlwind since I saw you  
_ _I've been running 'round in circles in my mind  
_ _And it always seems that I'm following you,_

And where the band sing ‘ _girl’_ , Steve sings ‘ _Bill’_ , following it up with a self-conscious chuckle when it doesn't quite fit. He stops singing then. Stops swaying. He looks right at Billy, “I want to kiss you. Wanted to for a while. So, uh, yeah. I'm going to. Now. Unless you. Unless you stop me." 

Billy nods. He's pretty sure it’s all a dream. That he's not gonna wake up back in that damn hospital bed, Ratchet leaning over him with a needle in her hand and this damn song still playing on the radio in the background, "Y'know, if we have our first kiss now then this has to be our song right? Officially."

Steve's leans his forehead against Billy's and he snorts a little laugh, "Yeah? You wanna wait for track two?"

"Depends.." Billy closes his eyes, "Depends what it is."

Steve's hand ghosts along Billy's cheek, thumb grazing along Billy's cheekbone, "Pretty sure that, uh, the next one's Wham!" he murmurs.   
  


Their lips finally meet just as the last notes fade.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me about Harringrove on Tumblr! I'm [CherryDreamer](https://cherrydreamer.tumblr.com/)


End file.
